The Sun Came to See You
by finalproblem
Summary: The recent overload of influenza patients at the hospital overwhelm Watson, and the stress and sadness of the job start to take their toll. Holmes, desperate to aid him, does what he can to help his suffering partner. -SLASH-
1. 003

**_003_**

I stepped through the door of 221B Baker Street, the only place that I have ever truly loved.

Worn, dirty, and full of useless junk – the place hadn't changed in years. But the chemical stains, dust on the windowsills, papers strewn across the floor, and cluttered furniture reminded me that this was home, and it always would be. I loved everything about this place.

The air here was thick with memories, and nearly every sight brought back some reminiscence from the past – from the old, worn arm-chairs sitting next to the fire to the faint cigar ash swept under the side-table, everything was there for a reason.

Everything and everyone.

As I set down my medical bag and removed my jacket, I felt the arms of the only person I have ever truly loved wind around my neck.

"Watson," Holmes breathed into my hair, "You're late."

I smiled. "Yes, Holmes."

I continued to remove my gloves and scarf, Holmes' arms still around me, his breath on my neck.

Turning his mouth to my ear, Holmes murmured quietly, "Mrs. Hudson is going to step into this room in approximately five seconds. What do you think she would say if she caught us here?"

My eyes widened and I shook Holmes off just as Mrs. Hudson stepped through the door.

"Your tea, Mr. Holmes?"

He gave a hearty laugh, eyeing me with a smile as my cheeks flushed with red. "Yes, thank-you, Mrs. Hudson!"

He took the tray from the oblivious landlady and ushered her out. As the door closed behind her, Holmes gave me a little smirk.

"My God, Holmes," I said, my heart fluttering with nervous worry. "One of these days, if you're not more careful –"

He grinned and set the tea-tray down on the nearby table. "Relax, dear Watson. It's been nearly a year, and she doesn't know a thing."

I rubbed my face in exasperation and then proceeded to pour myself some tea, bringing the cup over to my arm-chair and taking a seat.

Holmes stood across from me, behind his own chair, leaning on the backing. He held his tea casually, the misty white vapors of steam floating up from the heated drink.

I could see Holmes studying my weary face as I blew on my tea to cool it a little.

Eventually, he furrowed his brow and asked sternly, "What is it that's troubling you, Watson?"

I was a little slow to reply to Holmes' inquiry, my voice heavy with exhaustion. "Work was difficult – very tiring and busy. They kept me a bit later than usual so that I could help out. That's why I was delayed returning home."

I could see him think for a moment, but it didn't take long for Holmes to understand what I meant by 'difficult.'

"How many?" he asked.

"Seven. Seven more died, and that was only to-day."

Influenza had been spreading recently, much to the city's horror, and my work-place was overloaded with sick patients nearly every day. At present there were more patients than free beds. It was chaos, frantic mothers looking for help for their children, husbands trying to save wives, and other men and women deteriorating at such horrid speeds that we could only hope to save them.

The daily number of deaths was rising steadily, and seeing the fear and depression on the faces of those who had lost loved ones was hard. Their cries and sobs haunted me. It was sometimes difficult to sleep, my brain overcome with the deaths of the day.

It was very heavy on one's conscience, seeing the pale lifeless faces that myself and my fellow doctors had failed to save.

Though it was not easy, I faced work every day, along with my co-workers, and we fought the dreaded influenza as best we could. We wore masks, of course, but there was always the danger that one of _us_ may catch the sickness – in fact, recently a surgeon had contracted influenza and was in as grave of a danger as the folk who were suffering right beside him.

Oh, it was horrid.

My face was awash in sadness and worry as I continued to Holmes, "A young boy died early this morning. His mother came to me and cursed, crying, _'Why did you not save my son? He is only a little boy, so young, so helpless, and you did nothing to save him!'_. The other doctors had to drag her away, the poor woman. I mean, we did our best to help her and her son, of course, but he was too far gone, and there are so many other poor people…"

I set down my tea and buried my face in my hands. My mind rushed with all the deaths of to-day. Presently, I noted Holmes' lack of reply to this sad tale, and I glanced at his face. He was expressionless as he sipped his tea.

He noticed my glance and, in a feeble effort to seem concerned, he said in a vague tone, "Hm. What a shame. Very terrible."

His response was so pitiful that, even I, who had lived with him for years, was shocked to hear such lack of emotion. I set down my tea and stared at him, open-mouthed. "Holmes," said I in a bewildered voice, "I know that you can be a little lifeless at times, but do you really feel nothing toward this harrowing tale? These poor people, the mother whom I saw to-day… her only child had died, Holmes! Does this not sadden you, even only a little?"

He gave me a strange look. "I don't know these people. Why should it bother me if they or their kin pass away?"

I shook my head and was speechless for a moment before saying, "You really are just a machine, Holmes. How, pray tell, can you not at least feel a little sympathy for others, especially the sick people who are in so much pain?"

Much to my irritation, he made no reply.

I continued, my voice rising. "Have you ever _really_ been depressed, Holmes? I know you can get into your black moods at times, but that is usually over cases, not humans – I've never seen you really and truly unhappy because of something personal."

He glanced disapprovingly at me. "My cases _are_ personal, Watson. They're extremely important. After all, without these cases I would probably already be dead from a cocaine over-dose."

I glared at him, and then said rather bluntly, "I bet you've never shed a _single_ tear, have you? Not even one."

He shrugged. "I've never really found it necessary."

Again, I shook my head. "Never a single tear, really? Have you ever even cried, Holmes? You astound me."

He was quiet for a moment, sipping his tea. "_What_, dear Watson, could possibly happen to me that would bring me to tears? Surely, nothing comes to mind."

"What does it take? What if your own _brother_ were to die, Holmes?"

He furrowed his brow. "Hm, I suppose that would be rather sad. I would mourn, indeed, but I don't believe that I would cry. You're silent now, Watson, is that all you can think of?" Holmes smiled triumphantly.

I didn't answer him, annoyance and frustration silencing me for the moment.

Holmes continued. "Well, Watson, returning to your previous comment, I should think that you, of all people, would know that I am most certainly _not _a machine. Am I correct?"

He gave me a wry smile.

My face flushed red as I quickly stood and set my empty tea cup down on the table. Taking my walking-stick in one hand, I murmured in exasperation, "_Really_, Holmes."

* * *

Later that day, Holmes went off on case work, and I stayed behind, lest I was again summoned to my work-place. I didn't have a lot of extra time, and I couldn't leave Baker Street unless I was only away for a few minutes on small errands.

It was all very tiring, but it was my job – though occasionally this last fact was much to my dismay.

At present, I was taking some well-earned free time to sit back and relax in my arm-chair. I wished that Holmes was here, considering I would probably be called back to the hospital at some point later to-day, and I wanted to spend time with him.

My mind wandered, and I pondered pleasantly over Sherlock Holmes. I never thought, when I first met the eccentric man, that years later everything I loved and cared for would be him, but it had happened, and I was happy.

I shook my head and gave a little smile as I sat back and took the newspaper, mulling over the news of the week. None of it was really all that attention-grabbing.

As a result, I didn't pay attention much and was not too absorbed in the paper, so I was quick to notice the quiet creaking of the door below, the muffle voice of Mrs. Hudson, then the sound of steps upon the stairs.

I set the paper down and sat up, dearly hoping that it was Holmes who was coming to me, back from his little adventure. It was either Holmes, or –

"A telegram for you, sir," said the man who stepped through the door.

_Damn._

I took the little paper with reproach and saw the man out before turning over the telegram and gazing down at the message with tired eyes.

_Doctor Watson –_

_I'm sorry to call you back so soon, but we need your help back at the hospital. There has been a large rush of patients over the last hour, and we need as many doctors as we can get. Please come as soon as possible._

The writing was sloppy and rushed, and the note was not even signed. I guessed whoever had written it was indeed very busy.

I stood and stretched, my aching back cracking loudly. Rubbing my eyes, I gathered my work-things together again and headed downstairs, bidding the landlady a tired good-bye before heading off again.

It was going to be a late night.


	2. 002

**_002_**

The next morning, I awoke in the ancient old bed that was just another piece of the wonderful 221B Baker Street, with Sherlock Holmes asleep beside me.

I had gotten back late, but despite this, Holmes still had not yet returned to Baker. Last night, I had quickly changed into my sleeping-clothes and fallen into the bed, exhausted.

Now, however, Holmes was here, and he had no doubt snuck in the night before. Strangely, he was still in his normal clothes. Shirt, pants, and even shoes.

I had not even heard him come in last night, but I was indeed very glad that he was a part of my morning.

Staring at the plain white ceiling with my hand in Holmes' hair, the strange conversation of yesterday floated faintly in my memory, but the early morning had robbed me of most details for the time being, and my brain was still recovering from my drowsy wake.

The bed was so comfy and so quiet, and I closed my eyes and wished dearly that I could never leave. I wanted to say here, forever, with Sherlock Holmes beside me.

I drifted off, my mind soothed with the calming thoughts. _No more work. Just Holmes and I._

I could only rest like this for a few minutes, and it was far too soon when I had to finally retch myself back into reality, forcing myself to set my mind to work.

Lately, I had needed to rise earlier than normal to get to my job so that I could help the hospital, and though I regretted leaving Holmes so early and so often, ill people did need help.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. It wasn't even light out yet – one of the window-curtains was fully open, but there was no natural light outside, only the street-lamps glinting through the dirty panes.

Glancing at Holmes, I thought about how, unlike him, I actually _did_ want to aid the poor patients of the hospital, and hopefully save them from some sorrow.

I hated going to work now, the people cried so.

But their misery did make me realize how lucky I was to have the people I loved with me, alive and healthy, free from any sickness or disease – unless mild heartlessness was a disease.

Smiling at his tender sleeping face, so peaceful and calm, I leaned over and gave Holmes a kiss on the forehead before getting out of bed.

I stood and dragged myself to the closet, drowsily changing into my work-clothes: a simple brown suit and tie, black shoes, and my old green waistcoat, which was my favorite. Holmes stole it constantly.

I assembled my medical things – though that didn't take long, considering I had hadn't touched them since returning yesterday.

Just before departing, I took one last look into the bedroom at Holmes, who was still fast asleep, his black hair messy, his jaw covered in stubble, his clothes rumpled – but he was just Holmes, and that was all I needed.

I shook my head at the dozing man, glad that he was alive and well.

* * *

_Two weeks later._

It was mid-day, and I was just returning to 221B Baker Street from another unpleasant day at work. When I arrived, I inquired to Mrs. Hudson about my companion and was told that Holmes was not at home. I was a little sad to miss him, but I admit I did want some time alone. My head ached with grief. Twenty people had died to-day. _Twenty._

One elderly man in particular had fallen to the ground in agony, weeping bitterly over the death of his dear wife. For many minutes before, he had refused to believe she had really died, and he kept asking about her, even after we had told him of her fate. At first, we had thought him delusional, perhaps, but later it was quite evident that he was just overcome with sorrow and denial.

Besides the old man's wife, seven other women, six men, and six children had died. Even so, we were still short on medical beds. The entire place was in frantic disorder. I had been asked to return later that day, much to my distress, but in the meantime I figured I should get some rest.

I retreated to the bedroom and just lay upon the bed, exhausted. I wasn't feeling well, the stress of my work taking a toll. My body ached, and my head throbbed with dull pain.

Hoping the pains would go away, I fell into an uneasy sleep upon the old bed, still garbed in my work-clothes.

* * *

I hadn't slept for long, but Holmes was still not back when I awoke. I sighed heavily, but that merely resulted in a coughing fit. My chest hurt, and breathing was a little painful.

I stood from the bed, and was suddenly overcome with dizziness. Grabbing the bed-post for support, I closed my eyes and tried to calm my whirling brain. My head seemed worse, now, and upon checking the clock, I realized I had only an hour before I had to leave again.

I groaned and stepped into the bathroom to splash some cool water on my face. I glanced in the mirror in front of me and was horrified by what I saw.

My eyes were dull, dark bags of exhaustion under them. My hair was a mess, my face worn. I looked terrible. This work was getting to me, and I couldn't let that happen. I needed to be strong for my co-workers and for the patients, especially.

Shaking my head, I wiped the water and sweat from my face. I adjusted my collar and tie, smoothed the rumples from my suit, and gathered my things together so I would be ready to leave. I called on Mrs. Hudson to bring me some coffee, in the hopes that it might wake me a little.

I sat in my arm-chair while I waited for her return, my headache throbbing painfully in my temples. I could barely keep my exhausted eyes open.

Much to my relief, the dear old landlady was back within ten minutes. I downed the drink and left a small note for Holmes, in case he returned while I was gone.

_Holmes –_

_Gone to work. Won't be back for some time, so feel free to have dinner without me. Don't wait up._

_ John_

I set the note where he would see it, and stepped out into the streets, hailed a cab, and was off again.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!"

The landlady's frantic voice rang throughout the flat of 221B Baker Street, as the owner of the desperate calls rushed from room to room.

The man she hoped would hear her calls, Sherlock Holmes, was ignoring her, and though Mrs. Hudson knew this, she persisted.

Holmes had locked himself away in the study, working on a chemical experiment of somewhat relative importance, and the landlady was disrupting him. He had returned home not even an hour earlier, and, seeing that Watson would not be back for some time, decided to take this moment to work with his chemicals.

Annoyed, he grasped the door-handle of the study and flung it open. "What is it, Mrs. Hudson! You are bothering me at a most inconvenient time!"

She ran to the irritated detective, out of breath, her face pale. "Mr. Holmes, please, one of the fellows from the hospital is here on account of Doctor Watson. Something's happened, you must come down!"

Holmes' face paled. "What is it?"

The landlady shook her head, her chest heaving. "I don't know, Mr. Holmes, but the fellow is waiting down at the door to take you to the hospital. Doctor Watson wasn't doing well this morning, and I hoped he would be all right, but it seems –"

Holmes pushed past the poor landlady and had his jacket on in seconds, rushing madly down the stairs.

He stopped at the bottom and took notice of the man at the door before running over, quickly asking, "What is it? What's happened to Watson?"

The man took Holmes by the shoulders. "You need to come with me, Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson wants you. See, 'ere's what happened – we was just working like normal when Doctor Watson suddenly collapsed – we put 'im up in a bed for now. 'Wer terrified to imagine so, but we think he's gotten that dreadful influenza, since he's 'round it so often – another bloke got it not long ago, too. We figure 'is immune system was shot from th' stress, 'specially since working at the hospital can be a bloody difficult job, and he was more an' likely to get it. Normally, we wouldn't allow visitors since there's a chance you could contract it too, but Doctor Watson won't stop askin' for you."

Fear flashed in Holmes gray eyes for just a moment, and then he was down the steps and into the cab that was waiting for him, hardly giving the man behind him time to follow.

* * *

"I'm fine. Fine. Let me go. Where's Holmes? I'm fine, I don't need water. Where's Holmes?"

I was fine – just exhausted. I needed a little more sleep, and then I would be all right. Why couldn't they see that? They were doctors, like I. It was true, I hadn't been feeling well all day, and I had suddenly blacked out… But I just needed a few days off, perhaps. I was indeed in terrible shape, but it was only exhaustion.

"These damn lights are bright," I murmured, covering my eyes with my arm.

There were people all around me, rushing about, and at some point, someone had given me water, but it was warm and unpleasant. I fell into a coughing fit and lay back in my bed, my chest heaving.

Eventually, through all of the noise, I realized someone was speaking to me, though I wasn't really paying attention. They were saying something, but I didn't care. All I cared about was –

"Where the hell is Holmes?" I asked again, my head burning.

Suddenly, there were many more, much louder voices, and I removed my arm, blinded momentarily by the bright light – but someone was there, speaking, calling my name, a hint of desperation in their voice.

"Watson? Watson!"

"Is that you, Holmes?"

I saw him, and even through my nearly delusional thoughts, I could see the tinge of relief that flickered in his eyes. I reached out to Holmes, but he was gone too fast, the doctors taking him away, and I covered my eyes again.

* * *

It was merely a storage room – and one of the only places that was somewhat quiet in this crazed hospital. Sherlock Holmes stood against one wall, his body tense as the lead doctor in the small group by the opposite wall began to speak.

"He's gotten this horrid influenza," he said quietly. "He thinks it's just stress that's brought him to this state, and he won't listen to us – you're going to need to tell him that it's influenza, not just exhaustion."

"I don't give a damn if he knows he's got it!" Holmes said bitterly. "I just need to know what I need to do to make sure he'll be all right!"

The anger in Holmes' voice silenced the other doctors for a moment, but the detective's burning eyes told them that they needed to give Holmes exactly the information he wanted, and _now_.

Another doctor stepped forward, his voice quiet and nervous. "We can't keep him here, in the hospital. There are far too many risks, and we haven't got enough beds anyhow. Take him home, let him rest, and don't mention work. If he asks, just tell him things are going well, even if they're not. We don't want him stressed."

Holmes fidgeted, anxious, trying hard to keep his calm mask stable, though his voice was still hard. "Yes, but what do I need to do to help him get well?"

The doctor took out a small pad of paper and began writing. "Plenty of rest and nourishment. Keep a cool cloth on his head, but give him warm drinks, and make sure he takes nice warm baths, too."

He tore off the sheet and handed it to Holmes, who quickly stuffed it into his pocket. The detective, who had what he wanted, turned away from the doctors and stormed from the room.

He pushed past the crowds of patients and doctors alike before finally reaching John Watson's room. When he opened the door, no-one was there save the poor suffering man on the bed.

Watson was sitting up, his eyes covered, quietly muttering, over and over. "Holmes. Where are you? Where did you go? Holmes. Holmes?"

Holmes came to Watson's side and took his face in his hands, his forehead on the feverish doctor's. "I'm here, Watson, I'm here. Shh, quiet. We're going home."

He helped Watson from the bed, and they slowly made their way, Watson grasping Holmes' shoulder for support.

Together, they managed to make it home, and Holmes put Watson up in bed, with everything he needed. Watson simply slept, hours at a time, his slumber uneasy.

Always by the poor man's side and ready to aid his partner, Holmes did all he could for Watson, and though he was calm on the outside, the detective's brain could only think frantically, one thing, over and over.

_He'll fight this._


	3. 001

_**001**_

Every morning, the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, awoke – and he did not read the newspaper, and he did not accept visitors, because he was too busy for cases.

Each day, he did the same.

Holmes slept on the couch in the sitting-room, leaving the bed for Watson. He would awake, call for a nice breakfast, and take the meal to Watson, who would take small bites and tiny sips.

Holmes would sit with Watson and talk with him for a little while, but then he would depart so that Watson could sleep. At lunch, he returned, and the same at dinner.

When dinner was done, Holmes would sit in an old chair by the bed and comfort Watson with his presence, and then, after Watson had drifted off, Holmes would retire to the couch in the sitting-room, and the cycle would begin again the next morning.

The first few days were frightening – Watson did not seem to be getting any better. He was frail, and his aching chest heaved with ragged coughing.

But he never needed to fear that he would run out of something to drink, clean clothes, or the small white cloths soaked in cooling water, the ones that sat upon his burning forehead, because Holmes was always there.

Always.

Each day passed like a week – slow, frightening. Every hour, Watson's condition seemed to change – sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

But each night, Holmes would do the same he had every other day, carrying out his routine, watching over Watson, hoping for good health.

Their nights were full of quiet talk, violin solos, and occasionally, a bit of laughter. Holmes would stay with Watson until he fell into an uneasy sleep, and then the detective would retire to his couch in the opposite room.

Days turned to weeks. Weeks into a month. Watson remained bedridden.

But Holmes did not give up, he would never give up – he was determined to get Watson well again, no matter what it took.

Every day, the sick man seemed to change. He would be dreadful one day, barely able to speak, barely able to breathe – but the next, he would be hungry for toast and jam, and in a chatty mood.

Watson often wished, out loud, that he could lie beside Holmes and simply rest, the two of them together, but Watson's contagious condition had forbidden Holmes from getting too close to his poor companion for too long. This was very necessary, the doctors had said – though Holmes hated what they had told him.

Try to stay away from Watson.

This sickness continued, dreadful and long, and it seemed that perhaps the influenza would never cease.

Toward the end of the first full month of illness, however, Watson had seemed to be feeling much better, a few days in a row he had been a little more energetic. Holmes told him he must be getting better – this dreadful sickness would be gone away soon.

And, indeed it was.

* * *

The sky was black with clouds, though there was no rain. Dinner was over, but Watson had neither eaten nor drank anything. Despite his more recent days of well-being, he seemed much worse to-night. However, even on bad nights, he had always made a comeback the next day, and Sherlock Holmes was sure his partner would be asking for food the next morning, his stomach grumbling for toast and tea.

As was the usual after-dinner ritual, Holmes sat in his bed-side chair as poor Watson lay in the bed. He hadn't said anything, but Holmes could see that he was not sleeping, so he tried to be positive, even if only just a little, in the hopes that it might uplift Watson.

He rambled on for a while about the theories of music, and then on to his favorite pieces of violin to play. Holmes did retrieve his violin from the sitting-room and played a few cheerful pieces for Watson to enjoy.

Eventually, however, Holmes set his violin aside and smoked his pipe a bit, asking Watson questions and telling him little stories, which the bedridden man seemed to enjoy.

It wasn't until later, however, when the cheerful mood of the room was dramatically changed.

Holmes sat in his chair and said thoughtfully, "Your favorite opera is showing to-morrow, Watson. I overheard Mrs. Hudson talking about it."

"Is it?" said Watson weakly. "I should like to go, but this damn influenza has kept me in this bed for so long."

Holmes nodded slightly, a sigh escaping his lips. "I know, dearest Watson, I am sorry. I wish that I could comfort you more. My little stories aren't much help in getting you right and well again."

Watson was silent for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his mind lost in thought. He stayed like this for some time, as though he had just come to a rapid realization. His face was calm and terribly sad.

Suddenly, Watson's eyes widened, and the doctor slipped off the thin sheets and sat up in his bed, pausing for a moment so that his head could settle. He then fell into a horrid fit of coughing, his eyes watering with pain.

Holmes stood from his chair. "Watson! Are you all right?"

Watson's voice was quiet and rough as he beckoned. "Holmes, come here."

Sherlock Holmes stared at his friend, whose head in was his shaking hands, and the detective's heart cried out for the poor man. He hesitated, the hospital doctor's words of warning ringing in his head, but Watson's horribly pitiful state was too much, and Holmes gave in.

It had been ages since he had been so near the man he loved.

Holmes came to the side of the bed and sat beside Watson, though the sick man did not move for a moment. He simply sat, head in hands.

Holmes tilted his head a little. "Watson?"

It all happened all at once, so fast – John Watson threw his arms around Sherlock Holmes, buried his head in Holmes' neck, and shook, his body shuddering with sobs.

Holmes was still for a moment, frozen with silent dread, but soon he wrapped his arms around his crying companion and rested his chin on Watson's head. He said nothing, Holmes' own gray eyes still, silent, and afraid.

After a few minutes, after he had calmed, Watson spoke, his voice thick.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Holmes cradled his poor sweet Watson in his arms and closed his eyes. Pulling his partner closer to him, he whispered, and the words that left his mouth were so rare, but so exceptionally true.

"I love you too, John."

* * *

_What does it take?_

I awoke beside the bed, in the same chair that I had fallen asleep in the night before, instead of the usual couch in the room next door. I had stayed by John's side through the night, per his request.

_Oh, God. My poor John._

By the sky's light that was peering through the crack in the window-curtains, I guessed it was probably around seven in the morning.

John lay in bed, turned away from me, his body still.

_Oh, my poor John._

I stood from my seat and stretched myself, my back aching with sharp pain from my uncomfortable sleeping-place. I walked to the window, parting the curtains just a little to look outside.

It was surprisingly light; the dreary clouds from last night had cleared from the London sky and the sun was shining down upon my face from above.

My heart was lifted a little at the singular sight of the sun. Perhaps it would bring good fortune for to-day.

I continued to gaze outside as I said in the cheeriest tone I could muster, "Wake up, dearest Watson. The sun came to see you."

I fully opened the curtains and turned to him. He hadn't moved.

I came to the side of the bed and sat, gently ruffling John's hair, ignoring the doctor's words to avoid him. I couldn't, not now. "Watson?"

He was unmoving.

The feeling took no time. Something struck me then, deep in my chest – it was cold, bare, and yet it seemed to slowly wash over me, chilling every part of my body. It was horrifying, numb and bitter, pushing aside all other feelings.

Fear.

I shook him, calling his name, my voice ragged. "Watson? Watson, old boy, it's me."

Again, softly, my voice beginning to fail me. "John? My John?"

But I could speak no more, and I felt cold, all the life drained from my body, my heart hammering in my chest, that eerie feeling of fear refusing to leave.

I couldn't speak, could barely form thoughts, the fear overriding my brain, and though the cheery sunshine swept over the room, indulging it in warmth, I felt frozen. Petrified.

Slowly, my brain realized. I ran my thumb over John's face. It was cool.

My movements were rigid, and I shook as I ran my hands over his face, through his hair.

Denial. _No, please, no._

But the logic in my brain, the logic that I depended on, the logic I, for now, simply hated – it took over, and I was hit with the horrible realization again, and it hurt.

I was still for just a moment, and then I leaned down, in perfect silence, and kissed John on the forehead, my mind in pieces.

He tasted like sweat and misery, all the days that he had suffered now silent and cold, like he, and I knew that John Watson would never smile upon my retched face again.

"_Never a single tear,"_ whispered the words inside my head. _"Have you ever even cried, Holmes?"_

Again I looked down upon his face, cold and lifeless – and I sat beside the only man I have ever loved, the man whose voice I would never again hear, and the man whose eyes would never again rest upon my face. The man who had been everything to me.

I sat beside the body of John Watson.

And I cried.

* * *

A/N: I know. This was sad. Really sad. But I'd like to hear your thoughts on the ending - did you like it, were you expecting it, etc.

So, if you did enjoy this story, please leave me a review and let me know! I would really appreciate it.

_finalproblem _


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